CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "The Hollow-Out" Creepypasta

Episode Date: July 3, 2020

AUTHOR'S FACEBOOK► https://www.facebook.com/theparanormo...CREEPYPASTA STORY►by The_Paranormologist: https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comm...Creepypastas are the campfire tales of the internet. Horror stories spread through Reddit r/nosleep, forums and blogs, rather than word of mouth. Whether you believe these scary stories to be true or not is left to your own discretion and imagination. LISTEN TO CREEPYPASTAS ON THE GO-SPOTIFY► https://open.spotify.com/show/7l0iRPd...iTUNES► https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast...CREEPY THUMBNAIL ART BY- Sasha Ristic Krieger: ►https://www.artstation.com/artwork/e0...►https://www.behance.net/kriegermanSUGGESTED CREEPYPASTA PLAYLISTS-►"Good Places to Start"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g7YCb...►"Personal Favourites"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AEa2R...►"Written by me"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gX6RA...►"Long Stories"- https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list...FOLLOW ME ON-►Twitter: https://twitter.com/Creeps_McPasta►Instagram: https://instagram.com/creepsmcpasta/►Twitch: http://www.twitch.tv/creepsmcpasta►Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/CreepsMcPastaCREEPYPASTA MUSIC/ SFX- ►http://bit.ly/Audionic ♪►http://bit.ly/Myuusic ♪►http://bit.ly/incompt ♪►http://bit.ly/EpidemicM ♪-This creepypasta is for entertainment purposes only-

I'm being stalked by the hollow out. At least, that's what I call it. I only became aware of it last year, and I might never have known if it wasn't for the old lady on the subway. A cartoonish rendition, really. Blue cotton dress, silver hair, a pale and wrinkled face framed by a headscarf.

There was nothing that should have seemed out of place. And yet, the longer I looked, the more off, she felt. We were the only two on the subway that night. The car was filled with an ominous green glow, complimented by an occasional flash of blue light from the tunnel outside. The old woman was sitting opposite me, several rows down, looking straightforward. Her head snapped in my direction, and I suddenly looked at my feet, feeling awkward for staring. But after a few moments, I braved another sideways glance.

Yes, there was something off about her. The way things just look off, even when you can't put a finger on it. Something about a face. The way it sagged in all the wrong directions. Or perhaps the way it was pale and moist. All tricks of the lighting, I told myself. The overhead light cast wicked shadows from her features, deepening her eyes into sockets that seemed almost infinite.

When the train slowed to an event, a eventual stop, I felt relieved because I was beginning to creep myself out. The doors hissed open, and I moved past the old woman, refusing to look at her for fear of making it orchid again. A hand flew out and grabbed my wrist.

She held me there for a moment, the two of us staring at each other. Her grasp was icy, cold and clammy, but she held tight, almost painfully so. Her roughness was no more discernible, at this range, but there was a lumpiness to a face that didn't set well with me. She raised a knobby, arthritic finger toward the seat I just left.

My wallet was over there. In my haste to leave, it must have fallen out to my pocket. Oh, uh, thank you, I said, my heart beating rapidly in my chest. At last, her cold clench relinquished, and I retrieved my wallet from the seat. stepping off the subway was like getting a breath of fresh air. It seemed 20 degrees warmer outside. When I looked back at the subway car, I expected the glimpse the old lady one last time,

but she wasn't there. If she'd followed me out, I hadn't seen her. It wasn't until late that night, tossing and turning sleeplessly in bed, that I realized what had been the most unsettling about the woman's face. There were harsh rims around her eyes, where her pale flesh became somehow different,

as if her face had only been a mask, and the eyes peering out, bright and knowing, belonged to another person. It sounded crazy at the time. After a week had passed, I convinced myself that the old woman's face had simply seemed strange in the creepy subway light. After a month,

I'd reduce the experience to nothing more than my own late-night chills. But, just when I was beginning to forget the whole thing, the same odd had disappeared in someone else. Mr. Morrison was the high school chemistry teacher. He was balding and old and had never been married, probably not by choice by his own ratty appearance. His face was dominated by glasses and a mustache. It was his class that my classmates dreaded the most.

because his lectures were near intolerable. His voice was monotonous, and I swear the clock on the wall slowed to a crawl in each chemistry period. On this particular day, though, Mr. Morrison was less talkative than usual. He hardly uttered a word, and when he did speak, it sounded different.

It was unmistakably his voice, but there was a strain to it, as if something were tugging at his vocal cords, playing them like instruments, commanding them to work. Mr Morrison's back was turned and he spent most of the class copying our textbook onto the chalkboard. It wasn't the usual format of his class at all. When he walked, his movements were jerky and crooked.

In the back of class, Beth raised a hand and said, Mr. Morrison, are you feeling okay? I'm just fine. he said. Each word sounded like it caused him a great deal of pain. May I be excused? I asked, having no intention of using the restroom. I wanted to get as far away from his classroom as possible

because just looking at Mr. Morrison was starting to make me sick. No, barked Mr. Morrison suddenly, aiming a curled finger at me. Stay after class, Michael. We need to talk. behind his glasses Mr Morrison's eyes had the same mask-like appearance

the old woman's had there were circles around them and the eyes inside were bright and uncanny they were not Mr Morrison's eyes yes sir I said softly but as soon as the bell rang I vanished into the crowd of exiting students

and hurried out of the building instead of going to my next class I waited for Mr. Morrison and followed him at a distance when he finally left the school. His legs twisted and limped as he walked, his feet turning inward or spaying to the side. He staggered like a zombie, fell against the building, straightened and continued forward. I followed him along the side of the school and watched him disappear around the back. Where was he going? The parking lot was out front

And there was nothing back there to interest him Or so it would seem Peering around the corner I saw something I will never forget Until the day I'd die At first All I saw were dumpsters

And then I found him Mr Morrison was on the ground But he was no longer the plump man He once was He was deflated and hollow, a human husk, a sack of flesh that had been emptied of all bones and blood and tissue. His eyes and mouth were gaping holes that stared at me as though in a perpetual scream, as if whatever had been piloting his vacant body had crawled out and slithered away.

There were no signs of the thing. The next thing I knew, I was running home as hard as I could. I had gotten about two blocks before my sides began to wake, and three before I was out of breath. When I couldn't run any longer, I paused in the sidewalk, hands on my knees, wheezing and gasping for breath. I looked over my shoulder, but no one was following me. Which was good, I resolved,

because my assailant could be anyone. This was a conclusion I'd come to in a mere ten minutes after seeing Mr. Morrison, assuming this thing had killed him and, dare I say it, hollowed him out, it had crawled inside his body, either through the mouth or somewhere else, and operated his body like some sort of machine, like a Halloween costume. It had used his arms and legs and even his vocal cords. It had been capable of forming words, which meant it was smart and therefore dangerous.

Of two things I was absolutely certain That this creature could therefore become anyone And that it was for some unknowable reason Trying to get close to me I had theories of course Perhaps the first night on the train It had sensed that I was scared And figured I knew what it was

So it decided I needed to be eliminated Killed Yes that was a likely theory. Or maybe, I thought with a shudder. I had unknowingly encountered it before and angered it in some way then. I should have called the police,

but after I found Mr. Morrison's hollow corpse, the trauma was enough that I tried to forget the whole thing. His body was found the next day and a closed casket funeral was held a few days later. After a month, I was still having nightmares of Mr. Morrison's gaping faceholes staring right back at me. Even more disturbing was that the creature,

a thing I called the hollow out, was nowhere to be found. You may think that's a good sign. But to me, it was nothing but prolong the time I'd have to wait until our next encounter. I was sure it would turn up again. And after a month, I was tired of checking the eyes of my friends and family

to make sure they were themselves. At any moment, I expected someone's mouth to drop open and birth some monstrous entity. The distance I put between myself and others began to put a damper on my social life. I spent long hours locked in my room, ignoring my mother's knocks on the door. I shied away from my friends at school and flinched when anyone touched me. I ignored calls and text and found comfort in my own solitude. I'd become something of a hermit and dreaded the day I would let my guard down. long enough for the hollow out to get close to me again. The day came when I was

walking home from school, as per usual, holding the straps of my backpack as I strolled along the sidewalk with my head down. And as I went, I heard this pattering, like plastic, scraping the concrete. I turned to see a dog about ten feet back, small claws clicking on the ground as he walked. He stopped when I did and sat patiently, staring at me and panting. It was a brown Labrador by the looks of it, thinking such an animal could be nothing more than harmless. I continued forward.

The plastic clicking continued. I turned again, and the lab stopped. Closer this time. Tongue out, shoulders heaving. No? I said, purely annoyed that this dog was going to follow me home. Stay. Good dog.

I continued walking and had almost made it to the corner when I noticed the clicking again, uneven and drunk. I turned and found the dog directly behind me no more than three feet away. He sat still looking up at me

and that was when I noticed how strange he was. His body was lumpy one ear crinkled skin sagging in some places but the eyes were bright and intelligent, almost human. There were circles around them where the dog's flesh met a tender redness,

and I suddenly felt sure that the thing looking out at me was not a dog at all, but wearing one instead. That was when it smiled at me. I could have sworn it did, and I noticed the tongue hanging out of its mouth was all too long and pointy. The dog drooled. and huffed, and, when its mouth opened, the teeth inside were far too sharp. I turned on my heels and ran, but the clickety-clack of its feet was grown louder, gaining on me.

There was an awful, wet, ripping noise, as if the creature decided its four-legged suit was too much of a hindrance, and it needed to be unrestrained to catch me. I didn't dare look back to see what this thing looked like. I ducked into an alley and scrambled up and over a chain-link fence, and though I was sure I had lost it, I didn't stop running for a long, long time. It had done it, I thought. At long last, it had found me. What followed was a series of encounters over the next few weeks, each more narrowly escaped than the last.

I began to see the hollow out everywhere, the cashier lady at the grocery store, the mailman, a neighbor watering his lawn, a dental assistant, pass-a-by on the street, kids at school I'd seen but never talked to. I encountered it so often that I began to wonder if there was more than one. But no, I concluded, I could sense there was only one hollow out. My certainty was illogical, but those same blue eyes existed in every hollow person. I started following obituaries in the newspaper. Shortly after each of my encounters, the hollowed person would show up dead. The paper never mentioned it, of course, but I knew the bodies turned up deflated and empty,

found by some unsuspecting person. My stalker switched bodies so often that it seemed he never used one for more than a day. All this death to get closer to me. What did it want from me? When would it end? did it want to merely kill me? Or, I thought with a shudder, wear me like the rest. My paranoia had grown to such a degree

that I boarded up my bedroom windows and latched my door shut with a deadbolt. I'd never undergone, so I kept a buck knife stored in my nightstand, along with a microwave I'd installed in the corner. I hoarded cans of food and kept bowls and plates nearby. I'd also brought up three big jugs of water. probably meant for office coolers.

I knew the supplies wouldn't last me forever, but I hoped it would be long enough to get my bearings. After skimming that day's obituary for yet another victim of the hollowout, I caught sight myself in the full body mirror on the back of my door. My hair was tangled, my eyes baggy, sweat stains spreading in my shirt. It dawned me just how stressful this had been. The whole ordeal was taking a toll on my mental, and physical health.

Next to me, my phone pinged, displaying the 47th unread message I had in the past week. There was a soft knock of the door, so soft I almost hadn't heard it. Michael, are you in there? It was my mother's voice. I hesitated, then called, Go away, I don't want to talk right now.

From the other side of the door, Michael, I'm worried about you. The school's called and said, you weren't there again. What's going on? There was a sniffle, which made my heart melt a bit. I wish I could tell you, I said, choking back my own tears. But I can't. I just can't explain what's going on right now.

It's not safe. There was a crying outside my door now. It was soft, but I could hear it. Could the hollow out mimic crying so well, I wondered. As clumsy as it was, I doubted so. Emotions getting the better of me, I decided it would be safe to open the door just a crack,

leaving the deadbolt latched. I opened the door until the chain was taught. It was dark in the house beyond, but I could clearly see my mother standing there. There were tears on the cheeks. Oh, Michael, she said. You look terrible. I know I do, I said.

And then we both stifled laughter because I did look awful. It was a relieving, human moment. She looked like herself. I unlatched the deadbolt and opened the door. She didn't lunge at me or tear me out of my skin. Instead, she said, What on earth have you done to your room? I wish I could tell you, but it wouldn't make sense to you.

Maybe someday, but not right now. I know this will be over soon. What's happening right now is only temporary. I felt what I said was true, but didn't mention that the situation might just end in my death. My mother examined the microwave, the boarded windows, the newspapers sprawled on the ground. Then she looked at me.

You know, I'm always here for you, Michael. Whenever you need me, I know it's been tough without your father, but you can always talk to me when you need to. I know, Mom. She wiped her nose and ran a hand through her blonde hair. You're all grown up now and handsome. You look just like him, your father.

I don't understand what's going on with you right now, but we'll get through it together, okay? I'll always love you. She was moving towards me, bending to my level. Do you love me too, Michael? Don't you love me too? Of course I do, I said. She was crying now.

Real tears cascaded down her cheeks and streams. Oh, come here, sweetie. She leaned in and embraced me. I expected the worst, but it was just a hug. I felt myself relax a little. In my ear, she said, say you love your mother. I love my mother.

mother, I said. But her eyes were never blue. I swung the buck knife forward into her shoulder. I'd been aiming for the chest, but missed. She recoiled with a painful gasp, standing at full height and glaring

at a wound. A crimson shape began to crawl outward from the knife, seeping through her shirt and dripping to the ground. Then she looked at me, with tears brimming her wide eyes, a look of horror and confusion. plastered to her face. For a moment, it seemed like she wanted to say something.

Then she clapped to the floor. There was nothing graceful about the way she fell. It was like a sack of bricks tumbling down. She sprawled on her stomach, head twisted to one side, limbs had crooked angles. There was a brief pang in my gut, brought on by a fear that I had just committed metricide. It looked like her. it talked like her. I felt my stomach lurched with a sickening dread

at the thought that it had been her all along. Had my paranoia finally gotten the best of me? Had I just killed my own mother? Her fingers began to twitch and her body started to shudder. Slightly at first. Then her arms and legs were thrashing and her head was shaking back and forth.

She crawled to her hands and knees, drooling and convulsing, eyes rolled back in her head. Her slobber mixed him with blood on the ground. She reached up, grabbed the hill to the knife, and ripped it from her shoulder. Red spied like appendages shot out of her back.

The flesh suit of my mother crumbled away and a raw, blooded thing rose upward, screeching an awful screech, a sound so loud that I clasped hands over my ears and cringed. The creature was so horrifying to look at, that I understood why it needed to hide itself in the bodies of others. There was something unnatural about seeing it out of a host, the way a crab or turtle must look without its shell.

The form reminded me of a mantis, but the eyes. The eyes were human, bright and blue. I cowered in absolute horror, unable to look away. I wanted to run, but my legs wouldn't move. That was okay. because the monster, wounded by the knife, had no interest in killing me.

Instead, it smashed a boarded window, and, though it was impossibly large, contorted itself through the hole. It had grown dark outside, and the hollowout vanished into the night. Pulling myself back to my senses, I ran to the window. The creature had already gained much distance, scrambling awkwardly across the surrounding rooftops, leaping from house to house. When it finally disappeared from view, a final shriek of anger and pain echoed through the night.

That was the last I saw of the hollowout, although I'm sure it will return. And though I'm living with my aunt and uncle, mourning the loss of my mother, I know that it is still out there somewhere, searching for me, contorting itself into bodies that have found, far too small, speaking with throats that are not its own, and peering out with eyes

that do not belong, perfecting its talent until the mimicry is indistinguishable from the person. So be careful. If the people around you start acting weird, if they look or sound off, you might be dealing with someone far more dangerous. I'm simply waiting now, waiting for it to return for one final show. showdown in which one of us will die. I've got my uncle's shotgun, and I spend long nights pointing it at my bedroom door, waiting for the knob to turn.

Until then, I'm being stalked by the hollow out. At least, that's what I call it.